“That I leave to the Wolfsmen. I don’t believe the Sunedrion will need any more coaxing from us. Go now—Xenon is scowling at me.”
Thealos nodded and hefted the bundles and jogged after the Crimson Wolfsmen. Another quaere filed in behind him and the escape tunnel door was sealed shut again by Abtalion. Running through the darkness of the tunnels reminded him of his flight from the dungeons beneath Landmoor. In his mind, he heard Secrist’s howls trailing after as he pulled Ticastasy with him. Thoughts of her sent stabs of doubt and guilt through him. Their friendship had been based on a falsehood—the idea that he was a Silvan prince from Avisahn. Now he ran with the sword of one bundled up in a scabbard.
The air of the tunnel was musty and stale. He heard the boot echoes from before and behind him. Each of his protectors had been trained half a lifetime in the arts of war. As a barter’s son himself, Thealos felt more than a little inadequate.
“It’s a long run…pace yourself,” one of the Wolfsmen told him.
Thealos hardly felt winded, even after being confined for several days. His strength had returned and he felt well rested.
The tunnel zigzagged slightly, bearing at sharp angles and changing slope as they progressed. The blue glare from the Wolfsmen blades ahead became a rhythmic pulse and pace. Then all four weapons flared and flashed, in front and behind.
“What’s wrong?” Thealos huffed.
“The thing just crossed one of the wardings.” Xenon did not sound winded at all. He snarled a curse. “Killed the Warder stationed there. Our brothers pursue it.”
Another Shae killed by the thing. Anger seethed through him. He increased his pace and managed to keep up with the lead Wolfsman.
The tunnel ended in an empty cellar. The air was thick and cloying and made Thealos gag as he struggled to catch his breath. Xenon hurried up some wooden rungs and pushed up a trapdoor. The smell of the river engulfed them as they took turns up the ladder. Wolfsmen disguised as dock workers converged on the place and conferred quickly with Xenon.
The Lor nodded and turned to the others. “It’s coming this way. Get on the barge. Quickly! Warder—secure the tunnel!”
Thealos smelled the sweetness of Earth magic as it surged within the docks. He followed Xenon’s quaere into the cloudy mid-day light and down the planks of wood to the lower docks.
Shrill whistles sounded in the air just before the first wave of stench struck them. The smell of the Forbidden magic engulfed the docks like a shroud. It was as if the sun went black.
“Run!”
Thealos pounded down the steps and hurtled around an awkward dock piling, sprinting down the length of the pier to the stocky barge moored at the end. The stagnant reek of the magic attacked all his senses. It was not as horrid as the magic of a Sorian, but it was darkness and filth and struck fear inside his heart. This was the thing that had destroyed his family. Had murdered them.
He ran down the boarding rails and had reached the deck of the barge before Wolfsmen grabbed his arms and hauled him into the deck tent. Other Wolfsmen landed on the deck in succession, sounding like boulders down a mountain. The normally sweet smells of the harbor were staunched by the oppressiveness of the Forbidden magic.
“Shove off! Catch the current!” Xenon shouted.
His heart thundered inside his chest. Quickly he unwrapped the bundle with the sword, wondering if he would need to use it already. His palms were sweaty, so he scrubbed them against his pants and stared down at the weapon. The hilt was long enough for two hands, battered and scarred.
With a wrenching feeling, the barge drifted away from the docks and slowly increased in speed.
He heard the Wolfsmen outside the tent, quickly taking positions.
“There it is!”
“I don’t see it!”
Bowstrings hummed outside, sending their slender shafts like eagles.
“It’s too fast!”
Thealos tried to leave the tent to see what was happening, but a rough hand shoved him backwards and he tripped and went down.
Something huge and heavy struck the corner of the barge and sent it spinning. Thealos stayed on his stomach, wondering if it had managed to board them. There was no tingling awareness on the back of his neck—no sense that a Sleepwalker waited to protect him. He swallowed the nausea roiling in his stomach as the barge continued to spin.
“In the water! There!”
The bowstrings twanged again, but there was no sound to mark that it had been hit.
“Keasorn strengthen us!”
“No, it’s moving away from us. Go around, we’re still drifting. Look—it’s going to the shore.”
“No, it went under. I don’t see it anymore.”
Thealos propped himself up on his hands and crawled to the flap of the tent. It took several minutes of the Wolfsmen fighting the barge to straighten it out again. The reek of the Forbidden magic faded away.
But Thealos knew it hunted him still.
*